AWOL

Well I disappeared for a while there. I got swept up in the frantic rush of late November and December, a busy time of year at work as well as at home. I did keep thinking of my little blog but somehow couldn't get it together enough to write anything.

But it's a new year and a fresh start, so, keeping in the spirit of January, I'm going to do one quick, whizzy rundown of what I've been up to for the last few weeks and then move on with 2012.
There was a shopping and sightseeing trip to beautiful New York City. A treat for me from City Boy after struggling through a rubbish year health-wise.

There was lots of knitting and making ahead of the 25th of course, much of which was wrapped up and handed over in far too much of a rush to photograph. One such present comes immediately to mind - a reverse appliqué quilted table runner for my mum. I'd spent hours on it, and was finally sewing on the binding on Christmas Eve when I noticed a few red marks on it. On further inspection there were red smears all over it. Panicking now, and fearing the worst, I was trying to work out when it would have come into contact with red ink when I noticed that one of my fingers was also covered in red ink. Of course, I'd stabbed myself with a pin, which I'd not really registered in the frantic rush to get it finished and bled profusely all over natural linen. An unscheduled wash was required, and it was only just dry in time to wrap on Christmas morning.

There were a host of knitted gifts as well, including this lovely little cowl made out of some DK silk and merino, sent off to warm the neck of one of my grandmothers. This was actually for a birthday, of which we had two to celebrate in December. Really, it's quite inconvenient of people to be having birthdays when I'm trying to prepare for Christmas!

 

There were many, many shopping trips, often on two wheels with a laden basket, wobbling through the park.

There was decorating and a trip to three different places to hunt down that elusive perfect tree.

I didn't get many decorations made this year despite my intentions and the beginning of a Christmas quilt. I had imagined a quilt that could be brought out for snuggling in front of the fire in Decembers to come, but it currently consists of two star blocks.

Lots of baking (and eating), including a wonderfully sticky, spicy gingerbread loaf that I made (and ate) over and over again.

And there were lots and lots of lovely presents - I was thoroughly spoilt this year, including a present that I'd been dropping lots of hints for...

Except for leaving the house for a New Year's Eve party, in the period between Christmas and New Year we could, furry housemates included, normally be found on the sofa in front of a film with the fire on, all wrapped up and keeping warm.

An Autumn Morning

It's a wonderful sunny early Autumn morning here in London town. And it's the weekend! I'm up before everyone else, enjoying a cup of tea and a bit of knitting whilst reading the paper -multitasking! Of course I've got helpers with the paper reading and knitting.











And I have beautiful yellow roses brought home for me by city boy last night to start the weekend.



The blue thing on the needles in the photo above is something new, which is a source of shame seeing as the rust coloured cardi just needs an inch worth's of ribbing on one sleeve. Disgraceful.



I don't know why I can't quite bring myself to just get it done - it will only take an hour or so to finish and weave in the ends. I WILL do it this weekend. I have so many projects in the final stages that just need a bit of time - a quilt that just needs binding, a scarf that just needs the ends weaving in, a glove that needs a pair. My eye keeps getting turned by all the lovely patterns out there and feeling that I want them all to wear before the weather turns cold!

This weekend we're mostly pottering at home, although we may pop to a concert this afternoon. Tomorrow we're doing dog walking duties for friend, so there'll be a brisk autumnul walk across the common with a pub lunch. Fingers crossed that this weather stays!

Focaccia and Feminism

This weekend we had two birthdays; City Boy's friend on Friday, for which we ventured to a pub in Borough, and a barbeque at one of my best friends' house on Saturday evening. We were very English and stoically babequed through torrential rain showers, sheltering under a gazebo.

I had brought along tomatoes from the garden and baked a rosemary and sea salt focaccia. I also brought along a jar of the vanilla honey peach butter I made last week and freshly baked oat chocolate chip cookies because they're the birthday girl's favourite. I had knitted a hot water bottle cover for a birthday gift.

When the other girls complimented my homemade efforts I shrugged them off, saying that I'd spent the last few months on the sofa with not a lot else to do with my time (why women, including myself, so often dismiss their efforts in this way is a whole other post). But when I left, a girl who I hadn't seen in a few months, who is in fact very lovely, said something that has stuck in my mind ever since:

"I hope your back gets better soon, so you can stop all this domesticity shit and go back to work and use your brain again - otherwise soon you'll open your law books and not be able to understand a word."

She didn't mean to be nasty in anyway at all, and yet this comment has been bothering me. Perhaps not so much on my own behalf - I bake and cook because I enjoy it, because I like to eat and feed my loved ones good food. I sew and knit in my spare time because I find it relaxing, fun and because I can have custom fit clothes and hand knit scarves and gloves to wear. Because I can't sit in front of the tv without some yarn and needles in my hands. Because my job leaves little room for creativity, so I choose to fulfil that need at home. Because, despite what well-meaning friends may think, deciphering a lace chart or drafting a pattern for cabled gloves can be mentally stimulating. I can do all this and be proud of my professional acheivements.

But what about those women who don't have a professional life? The women whose life's work is raising children and homemaking. Do other women, including my successful, independent friend, value this work done in the home so little? Is her passing comment indicative of a wider view?

This is clearly a much wider topic than I intend to give room to here. Feminism and domesticity have always been uneasy bedfellows and it's been discussed many times before, far more eloquently than any thoughts that I have to offer. I was reminded of the controversy stirred up by Jane Brockett's book a few years ago.

I've always been interested in feminist theory and in fact completed my masters dissertation on feminist legal theory, but I'm not sure that I've ever been so directly forced to consider my own choices and the notion that I may be hindering rather than helping the feminist cause.

The easiest argument for homemakers to fall back on is that feminism allows women to choose how they spend their life, and they can choose to spend it in the home. This is partly true, in that feminism has opened paths that were not previously available to women, but just because a choice is now available to women does not mean it's a helpful one to make. Being female certainly doesn't make mean you are automatically a card carrying feminist. I also think the argument that it's all a big sisterhood and women should stick together and respect each other's choices rings false - I'm afraid I'm not going to hold back on criticism simply because someone has boobs.

I think, ultimately, valuing the work women do in the home is more complicated than being solely a feminist issue. As a society we will always hold some jobs in higher esteem than others and I'm not sure that many parents of my generation would wish for their child to grow up and stay at home. But we don't necessarily value jobs by the salary they command: someone who works for charity for a pittance is perhaps held in higher esteem than a solicitor, a teacher deemed more worthy than an estate agent, so why do some  people view the role of a homemaker, who works for no salary, as less worthwhile than a job in the city?

I think people don't like to see wasted potential, which is why parents strive to give their children the best education possible. But if someone who could have been a successful career politician chooses to stay home to bring up their children instead are they squandering their potential? And even if you can answer yes to that question, does it matter if it means they are happier? Do women have some sort of duty to put the feminist cause above their own wishes?

I do think that women have to be mindful that the choices they make have the capacity to affect other women and I feel that the current vogue for domesticity should be approached with caution. It certainly makes me a little uncomfortable when women who have grown up as beneficiaries of the women's movement proudly proclaim that they are content to stay home and make it pretty. It touches on issues of class and privilege as well; I am yet to read a blog espousing the virtues of snuggling under a homemade quilt in a clean warm house by someone who has to support their family through paid domestic labour every day. There are more than a few women out there writing from a  position of privilege, supported financially by men, who hold up their way of life as an ideal.

Women certainly haven't won the fight for equality yet, and we can't afford to lose the ground gained at this point. Neither can we afford to take those battles hard won by past generations for granted. I do find it distasteful that so many clever and articulate women seem to want to play at being fifties housewives when our grandmothers and great grandmothers fought so hard to be valued outside of the home. I don't feel that women who are simply lucky enough to have the time and money to make beautiful homes and raise well-dressed children should be held up as role models. There are far more important things that women have to offer. But there are also many talented, inventive, smart women out there who make beautiful things and whose work shouldn't be devalued just because it's traditionally done within the home.

I am finding it incredibly difficult to come down on one side of the argument or the other. I think, like so many other things, the trick is finding a balance that you're comfortable with and I don't think that a life can be lived based on a point of principle. I enjoy cooking an elaborate meal from scratch but I expect City Boy to load the dishwasher after. I often yearn for a few quiet hours at home with my knitting needles but I need the stimulation of the work place as a counter point. I can ice a cupcake but I can also hold my own in the board room. Where the balance lies is a personal decision for every woman, but I think we have to make that decision thoughtfully and not neglect our own ambitions in favour of those of our partners and children, which women seem to do all too easily.

As for tonight, I'm going to finally knit the inch and a half of ribbing on the sleeve of this orange cardi so I can start knitting what I really want to be knitting.

The Benefits of Neurosurgery

 As far as I can tell...

...there are only two good things...

...about needing surgery on your spine.

The first is that people bring you...

...a ton of flowers...

 

The second that you are allowed, in fact instructed...

...to spend the afternoon like this:

 

(Glass of wine probably not actually recommended in conjunction with the painkillers. Would anyone believe me if I pretended it was apple juice?)

Horses and Horticulture

I’ve been rubbish recently. Rubbish at writing here, and, if I’m being honest, rubbish at getting anything done whatsoever. I’m still in a lot of pain with my back injury, which justifies some of the laziness, but definitely not all of it. I’m still not doing full days in the office, and I seem to have got into the habit of coming home and lying on the sofa. And that’s it. For the rest of the day.

This isn’t helping with the generally rubbish feeling about being stuck at home for most of three months, so the past few days I’ve been trying to make a bit more of an effort. I’ve done some baking, including these cheese and sweetcorn scones – they were very good but aren’t brilliant after the first day, so  you just have to eat them all immediately. Not a huge hardship. I also made a batch of pizza dough for dinner Sunday night – our little routine is that I make the dough (with the dough hooks on my stand mixer – I don’t even need to get my hands dirty, I love it so much), and City Boy takes responsibility for the toppings and baking, with strict instructions NOT TO OVERLOAD THE PIZZA. Failure on my behalf to mention this in the past has resulted in a nice thin base that doesn’t cook properly below 2 inches of topping.

I even dragged the sewing machine out to alter a few bits of clothing, but after I turned a dress into a too-short t-shirt (say that quickly ten times) and the machine chewed up the hem of a pleated jersey dress I decided that I was pushing my luck and put it away again. Instead I turned to some soothing, non-taxing knitting – adding a section to a garter stitch blanket that I’ve had in a drawer for a couple of years. Once I’m finished with this bit it marks the half-way point, so I may have a blanket by 2013.

I’ve just found out that I’m going to be having a little bit of surgery on my spine next week, so I need to get some good books and some knitting planned for both whilst I’m in hospital for a few days and the recuperation period at home. I need to get everything ready in advance, as I won’t be able to pop to the shops for a circular needle in the right length or an extra ball of yarn. I’ve got a wedding coming up in August, and I have a new dress to wear, but I’m thinking I’ll need some kind of wrap or shrug for the evening. I’m a little bit apprehensive about the surgery, but this should sort out my problem, so it’s good news and I’m feeling positive about it.

City Boy managed to get me out of the house on Sunday to watch the showjumping phase of a pentathlon in the picturesque setting of Greenwich Park. It was a lovely afternoon, even if the staff on the door were mean and wouldn’t let me take my coffee in, and City Boy treated me to a lovely pub supper in Greenwich after.

Despite my general apathy, I have managed to motivate myself to potter in the garden. As we have a little courtyard style garden, pretty much everything is grown in pots, so keeping up with the watering is essential. I’ve surprised myself with how much I’ve been enjoying the garden this year – I never pictured myself as particularly green fingered. In fact, I may be enjoying it too much – I recently had a conversation in my sleep with a bemused City Boy that went something like this:

Me: You can’t do that, you haven’t got any canes

City Boy: huh?

Me: The canes, where are the canes?

City Boy: umm...I think you’re sleeping. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.

Me (getting exasperated): For God’s sake! The canes.  For the tomato plants. Where are they?

City Boy: Right.....

Me (waking up and getting completely confused about what I’m so desperate to explain): Never mind, I’ll explain later.

And back to sleep. City Boy claims he knew immediately I was talking in my sleep because it was the first time he’s known me to raise my head from the pillow as soon as the alarm goes off. Cheeky bugger. Clearly I need to do something a bit more exciting if I’m dreaming about tomato plants. I am however very excited about the appearance of my first courgette flower this week – stay peeled for exciting times at The Littlest House.

At least I have hot water

I’m not supposed to be writing this. I’m supposed to be knee deep in mud in Somerset, pint of cider in hand with unwashed hair. Instead I’m lying on my back contemplating a weekend by myself.

I was all set to go to Glastonbury festival, but it was decided that it perhaps wouldn’t best for the recovery of my back injury to spend four days wading through mud and sleeping in a tent, so I sent City Boy off with his friends and a selection of baked goods on Wednesday night.

I’m feeling a little sorry for myself and – I’m not going to pretend I’m at all gracious – I hope it rains all weekend and their tents get flooded.

I’m also feeling a little tired. City Boy thought 3.30am this morning was an ideal opportunity to fill me in on the day’s events, and the kittens thought that me swearing at the phone meant it was morning, and I should get up to feed them. In fairness to them, I do use my phone as an alarm clock, so normally when I curse at it it’s because I have to get out of bed.

They alternated sitting on my head with leaping on my toes for an hour, after which they obviously passed out from hunger, having gone four hours without being fed. Two hours later, at 6.30am, an odd noise woke me...

...thud...

...thud...  

The little bugger had climbed up onto the dresser and was pushing coins off one at a time onto the wooden floor. There was no hope for any more sleep so today I’m surviving on coffee and the promise of a lie in tomorrow.

I’ve finished the horrible work related thing that I’ve been avoiding the last few weeks, so I’m hoping to get some time to finish up a lot of the fun projects that are in various stages of completion.  Having said that, there are changes afoot and I even had an interview at another company on Wednesday. I cannot put down in words how much I loathe interviews. It’s been four years since I last had to do one, so I’m treating Wednesday’s as a practice and vowing to answer their stupid questions with a straight face next time.

“Can you describe, without moving any part of your body, a particular swimming stroke so that we can tell which you’re describing?”  

Learning to let it slide

Before I lived with City Boy I shared a flat with two other girls. I used to churn out quilts, knitted garments and make lots of clothes, and made most of the Christmas and birthday gifts I gave. Other people would tell me that they don’t know where I found the time to do all this. I’d respond that I don’t have kids and I rarely watch TV, so if I have an evening at home I’m free to spend it at the sewing machine. Secretly, I suspected that if a lot of these people stopped watching Coronation Street they might have time too.

Now I know the truth. They were all doing housework. When I lived with the girls, there were three people working reasonable hours to share the housework. We rarely managed to eat dinner together due to busy social lives so I was free just to grab cheese on toast for dinner rather than cook properly. Now I eat with another person I feel like I can’t just serve up a piece of semi-stale cake and call dinner done. City Boy does do a lot round the house and cooks a few times a week, but he works much longer hours than me, so the bulk of it falls on me.

 Recently I’ve been starting to feel like the amount of housework I do is way out of proportion to the amount of time I spend in the house. I haven’t picked up my knitting needles in weeks, quilts I’ve started are languishing in the bottom of the basket and ideas noted down aren’t coming to fruition. I’m clearly doing something wrong, because I should be able to find at least few hours a week at home to create something. Either I’m too slow at getting the chores done or my expectations are unrealistic. It’s also a question of priorities I think – whilst I enjoy lovingly preparing delicious home cooked meals in the evening, I have to face the fact that I don’t have time to do this and do the other things I want to.  

This week I’ve had a lesson in letting go of the housework. I’m currently immobilised due to a back injury. In the last few days I’ve had x-rays, physiotherapy and I’m currently lying flat all taped up. I’m sure I’ll mend, it’s just one of those things that is going to take a little time and physio.

So City Boy has been looking after me, the house and the cats this week and he’s been fantastic. He works long hours and then comes home to cook me dinner, which is very welcome after a lunch that consists of whatever’s in the biscuit jar. He washes my hair for me and brings me yellow roses.

So no complaints there. But it’s incredibly frustrating, because I won’t ask him to do anymore than he currently is after a twelve hour day at work, and there’s seedlings that need planting out, laundry piling up and dust collecting in corners. And I just have to lie down and look at it. I can’t imagine what it is like for people that have to permanently rely on a carer. It’s driving me up the wall having to rely on City Boy to do just a few things for me for a limited period.

What’s the problem with lying around all day?

And yet the house is still standing. People and animals are still getting fed healthy meals and (at least for a little while longer) we have clean clothes to wear. The cat hair on the sofa is making my left eye twitch, but I’m thinking that if we can still function when I’ve done no housework for a week, perhaps when I’m mobile again we’ll be ok if I just let it go a few evenings a week and that we’ll survive if I just stick a couple of potatoes in the oven for dinner occasionally. Besides, it appears that once the floors reach a certain level of dust and cat hair they don’t seem to get any worse.